


Respite for the Irredeemable

by staymonkey



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Allergies, Animal Death, Camping, Car Sex, Cuddling, Dehydration, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fear Toxin Reference, Fluff, Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, IV - Freeform, Implied Sexual Content, Joker Venom Reference, Loving Marriage, M/M, Mild Injury, Needles, Non Explicit Deer Processing, Non Explicit Description of Vomiting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdated Pop Music References, Semi-Public Sex, Sick Fic, Sweet, Trans Male Character, Trespassing Federal Land, care taking, dick Grayson is trans, for food though, implied fellatio, implied fingering, mild body horror, references to murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:23:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23174473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staymonkey/pseuds/staymonkey
Summary: Slade comes home from an extended work trip to find that Gotham is still a cesspool. So, he takes Dick camping.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Comments: 39
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [apprenticenanoswarm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/apprenticenanoswarm/gifts).



> This is entirely for apprenticenanoswarm, whose writing I cannot gush over enough. 
> 
> This was originally just supposed to be a camping fic, but I wrote too much intro for what I intended and so I've split it into two chapters. The first is essentially a sick fic, the next will be entirely a camping fic. The rating will skyrocket; if sex scenes are not for you, the first chapter can stand alone. 
> 
> Any and all feedback welcome :)

It was just after 6 am when Slade arrived home. He’d been gone for longer than usual; an uncomfortable five weeks of traveling, stalking, and painting Gucci wallpaper red kept him away which meant there had been five uncomfortable weeks for his father in law to take advantage.

(Not that Dick humored Wayne’s reservations, passive aggression, or threats. Slade could trust, if nothing else, that Dick was an unstoppable force to Wayne’s immovability, which meant a terribly uneasy truce benefiting Slade’s marriage. But Dick still jumped when Wayne asked in nearly every other respect. Slade didn’t have the patience for it.)

(Slade did, however, have the patience to systemically and remotely tamper with Wayne Foundation’s financial records over the course of eleven months ahead of an annual audit. Two board members resigned, and, a year and a half later, Wayne was _still_ attending to press conferences, depositions, and administrative restructuring.)

The front door was already unlocked, and so Slade unzipped the duffel bag of weapons he had slung over his shoulder. Dick wouldn’t be thrilled about Slade’s intent to julienne any intruders he found, but Slade wasn’t thrilled that he had to delouse a compromised home so soon after returning from his business trip.

He drew a katana from the duffel, hooked it to his belt, and unsheathed the blade. As he crept through the unlocked front door, he listened intently enough that he could hear Dick’s uneven breathing from elsewhere in the house.

He sounded injured, but Slade could let him be for now. As long as Dick was still breathing, he could handle himself. Relinquishing the focus required to hear something as soft and far away as Dick’s exhales, Slade continued on.

The lights were all off, as they usually were this early in the morning, and from what Slade could tell none of their belongings appeared out of place in the foyer or living room. At least, not beyond what Slade expected given Dick’s penchant for disarray. 

Whoever was in the house hadn’t triggered the security system either. Slade stopped to fidget with the system panel as he passed by its cheery, blinking light. There wasn’t any evidence that Dick hadn’t armed the system, nor was there evidence of any tampering. At least not at a glance.

By the time Slade finished the living room and cleared the kitchen, there wasn’t anything that conclusively confirmed a home invasion. Which could have very well meant there hadn’t been one. But, with his and Dick’s histories, it was equally likely that this was an invasion conducted by knowledgeable professionals.

Slade braced himself for a fight, shifting his grip on his katana. He breathed so softly that the rise and fall of his chest were nearly imperceptible as he slunk towards the bedrooms with the stealth, finesse, and temperament of a panther. The house hung in rapt suspense with nary a creak from the wood floor to cut the tension.

Until a _cacophony_ of guttural retching and hacking coughs splintered the silence with the force of a Radically Invasive Projectile. A pungent scent reached Slade, as did Dick’s groaned “fuck.” Slade huffed, sheathed his sword, and strode towards the master bathroom at his normal gait.

The light in the bathroom was on when Slade slung the door open. Sure enough, Dick was crumpled against the toilet, his ashen face streaked with sweat and tears. He was wearing only a pair of ratty, Green Lantern patterned boxers. His Nightwing uniform, boots, jock, and escrima sticks were shoved into a corner. Dick’s hair was disheveled and there were deep, purple bags beneath his dull eyes. Dick’s stark muscle definition, however Adonic, also indicated severe dehydration. Still, when Dick saw Slade, he grinned lopsidedly and lifted his head.

“Hey, babe,” Dick rasped, voice falling an octave ahead of him swallowing a retch. “I missed you.” Seemingly unable to hold himself up much longer, Dick laid his cheek on the toilet seat, his face turned so he could look up at Slade. “How was work?”

“Uneventful,” Slade said because neither of them was in a position to qualify their moralities at the moment. “Sick or poisoned?”

“Poison, s—,” Dick cut himself off and swallowed with a grimace. “Poison, sort of. It’s, uh,” Dick licked his lips with and squeezed his eyes shut. “Um, poison’s, uh—” Dick’s eyes flung open. “Sorry, Slade, jus’—,” Dick slung his face over the toilet and coughed up what couldn’t have been much more than bile. When finished, he spat and glanced over at Slade through newly damp eyelashes. “’s from the Fear Toxin antidote. Got dosed, had to take it. ‘S got side effects.”

Slade wrinkled his nose. “The treatment may be worse than the disease,” he said. He dropped his duffel bag and walked over, crouching to evaluate Dick more closely. He gripped Dick’s chin and tilted his head up, turning his face, first to the left and then to the right. Dick’s pupils were dilated but otherwise even, and Dick managed to maintain focused eye contact. His olive skin was pale and sickly green, and his lips were cracked. His greasy hair was stiff with old styling product, he was never any good at taking care of himself when sick or injured.

“It’s really not,” Dick mumbled, hardly moving his lips. His eyes were losing focus, and so Slade released him in time for Dick to duck back into the toilet bowl to dry heave. Dick spat when he was finished. “I can’t do Fear Toxin,” Dick near whispered into the toilet.

“You’re an adult, you can pick your poisons,” Slade reasoned, largely to himself.

Dick gingerly lifted his head to shoot Slade a wry grin, “I’ve picked my poison and it’s you.” Dick bat his freshly wet eyes at Slade expectantly.

Slade blinked.

“'Nothing can kill me like you do?’” Dick added, scanning Slade’s body language for a hint of understanding.

Slade blinked again.

Dick softened his smile and closed his eyes. “It’s a song,” he clarified. “I’m trying to woo you with pop music references from 2015. Surely you had access to F.M. radio in 2015. Or were you on loan to the Smithsonian’s Hall of Fossils?” Dick couldn’t even enjoy his own terrible joke before his eyes shot open and he hunched over the toilet again.

Slade politely waited for Dick to finish retching before commenting, “I killed a Smithsonian curator once.” 

Dick dropped his forehead on the toilet seat and took several breaths before lifting his head again to meet Slade’s gaze. “Do I want to know why?” Dick rasped.

Slade reached out and swiped a thumb underneath Dick’s eye to collect fresh tears that threatened to fall. “She had something that didn’t belong to her. I'll have Billy bring us groceries, what do you need?”

There was a pause, during which Slade thought Dick might argue for more information, but then Dick sighed, “I need Dramamine and allergy meds. An OTC blister pack is fine.”

Slade frowned. “You don’t have allergies.”

“Got into a spat with Harley last week,” Dick said, with a lethargic wave. “Ivy swallowed me into a plant. I was totally fine; she was just trying to de-escalate, but there was a lot of pollen and now I can’t stop sneezing and my eyes burn if I go outside without medication.”

Slade’s jaw tightened. “Anything else?”

“We need more bottled water. I drank my last one… the other day, I think?” Dick added, visibly swaying.

“What’s wrong with the tap?” Slade asked, placing a hand on Dick’s back keep him steady. “We have an industrial water filter. You look ready to faint, put your head between your legs.”

“There’s Joker Venom in the water supply,” Dick said, slurring on ‘water supply’ and gripping the edge of the toilet seat. “An’ they found some dead mobsters in the res’voir. ‘S a state of emergency so that FEMA cah—” Suddenly, Dick’s eyes rolled back, and he pitched towards the ground. Slade caught him before he could hit the bathroom tile.

“Hold on, kid,” Slade muttered as he stood, scooping Dick into his arms to carry Dick to the bedroom proper. Slade tucked him between their sheets, careful to place him on his back and elevate his feet using throw pillows from their chaise lounge.

It didn’t take long for Dick to rouse. First, his breathing hitched. Then, his head lolled to the side and he blinked blearily at Slade. Slade who, by that time, hovered near the bed with the emotional warmth of an ominous obsidian obelisk in the middle of an otherwise empty field.

“Y’ur hot,” Dick slurred. “Do a lil twirl.”

“You fainted,” Slade said, crossing his arms.

“Mm,” Dick hummed, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “’N angry. Prob’ly why you’re so hot.”

“Your sexual attraction to older men’s anger is fucking distressing,” Slade snapped, although he also crouched by the bed to cup his hand over Dick’s exposed neck. Dick tilted his head into the mattress to push the arch of his neck against Slade’s palm, and so Slade pulled away. “Stop that,” Slade chided.

Obligingly, or perhaps by necessity given his severe condition, Dick heeded Slade and relaxed again. Slade returned his hand and when he felt the steady thump of Dick’s carotid pulse, he counted the beats.

“Your heart rate is still too fast. Have you had any water since you began vomiting?”

“No,” Dick sighed. “Outta water bottles.”

“How long have you been vomiting? Over twelve hours?” Slade pressed.

“Dunno,” Dick said. “Took the antidote… yesterday? It started after that. Think it’s about over. It’s been mostly dry heaving for a while.”

“When did you eat last?”

“Couple of hours ago,” Dick said, closing his eyes. “Jell-O.”

“An actual meal. With substance and at least 12 grams of protein, preferably more.”

Dick squinted. It took a moment of what appeared to be intense thought, but he finally managed, “Then yesterday, I think….” He frowned. “No, no, not yesterday. It was before Crane but after the arsonist, because then I got extra guacamole…” Dick mumbled to himself. After a few seconds of further deliberation, Dick concluded, “Two days ago. Give or take four hours. I got a burrito with extra guacamole.”

“You need intravenous fluids and broth,” Slade said. “Next time you’re this incapacitated, call Billy. Call the Teen Titans. Call your fucking brothers.” Slade cupped Dick’s face with both his hands and insisted, “You agreed you wouldn’t set yourself on fire for this abscess of a city. It’s already bloated with vigilantes, let it go so we can move somewhere suitable for sustaining life.”

“Missed you,” Dick slurred with fluttering eyelashes and a dopey smile. “You don’t get it, but I still missed you.”

“It will happen,” Slade warned. “I will take you out of this city if I have to drug and drag you.”

Dick closed his eyes and Slade brushed his hair from his face. “’’S jus’ been a bad week,” Dick mumbled through lips that barely parted as he spoke. “’M gonna sleep now, okay? Maybe we can go someplace outta town when I wake up.”

Now there was an idea. Slade wasn’t opposed to vacation, if it was somewhere without smog, capes, rogues, light pollution, noise pollution, chemical pollution, water pollution, industrial chemical manufacturing, poisonings, unpotable water, mafia violence, children, League of Assassins affiliates, litter, clowns, fascists, attorneys, Mother Boxes, omniscient hackers, state surveillance, crowds, public transportation, solicitors, dog shit, street protests, unidentifiable grime, or traffic.

Somewhere green, with an Air Quality Index better than “unconscionable”.

While Dick dozed, Slade made quick work of preparing an IV drip with supplies from the house’s panic room. As soon as he finished inserting and taping the needle to Dick’s forearm, he texted Wintergreen an extensive list of requests. After a brief moment of consideration, he texted Rose too because Dick would like that and because Slade could trust Rose to shout at him. Only then did he crawl into bed beside Dick.

Slade settled against Dick’s side, close enough to pin Dick’s free arm. The light jostling stirred Dick, and so Slade snaked an arm around Dick’s waist to still him. The position wasn’t comfortable, as different as it was from how they usually slept, but Dick also wasn’t usually hooked to fluids.

“The needle in that arm is supposed to be there. Don’t pull or move around,” Slade warned when Dick ran his fingers through the hair on Slade’s forearm.

“Mm,” Dick grunted, eyes still closed. He stilled his hand, and Slade slid from under it to grab Dick’s wrist and press it back against the mattress. Dick grunted in distaste. “Can I have my other arm back, then?”

“No,” Slade said. “You’ll roll on your side or yank out the needle.”

Dick wiggled. He wiggled again.

“Kid,” Slade warned.

“This isn’t cuddling,” Dick whined. “You’ve been gone for so long and now I can’t even get you to cuddle me. I’m going to die like this. Languishing away in a loveless bed.”

“You need fluids, Dick. When the saline bag’s empty, we’ll take a bath and you can latch onto me then,” Slade said, although he did rearrange himself so that he was under Dick’s arm and resting his head on Dick’s chest for more skin contact.

That seemed to settle Dick, and the room fell into a sleepy silence for several minutes.

“Missed you,” Dick said again, just as Slade began to drift. Slade grunted his acknowledgment, and Dick added, “Missed your cooking too. I’ve been eating takeout and Jason’s experiments in the kitchen. Make me fried chicken later? With collard greens?”

“If you go to sleep, I’ll throw in cornbread too,” Slade mumbled. “And if you didn’t fuck up our cast iron skillet while I was gone again.” Dick didn’t reply, but his heart rate jumped. Although the spike was probably just Dick’s excitement at the mention of cornbread, Slade grew concerned for his skillet. “You didn’t fuck up the skillet, did you?”

“No,” Dick said, sounding bemused. “But Jason did when we tried to imitate your fried chicken recipe. His doesn’t taste nearly as good as yours, you know.”

Slade sighed.

“He hasn’t been to the rural South enough to make good fried chicken. I’ll ask Wintergreen to bring a skillet too, then,” he muttered, although he didn’t make any effort to reach for his cellphone. Dick’s pec was much more comfortable than the hotel pillows Slade had been subjected to in the past several weeks.

“Can’t we just use the one in the garage?” Dick asked.

“No,” Slade said. “That’s not cast iron, the cornbread wouldn’t be crispy on the outside if we used it. Besides, it’s for camping.”

Slade’s eye snapped open.

Now, _there’s_ an idea.

[my tumblr](https://staymonkeywithme.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slade and Dick go camping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't quite finished, but I wanted to update the fic as I am extremely late as it is.

Dick had an uncanny ability to sleep anywhere he felt safe. Where he felt safe was often suspect: he’d slept in warehouses while being held hostage, he’d slept in the crooks of trees to hide from his own mentees, he’d slept on gargoyles that hunched over the edges of skyscrapers, and, sometimes, he slept in Deathstroke the Terminator’s Murder Car.

“It’s not a murder car,” Slade said. “It’s a Subaru rental. I wouldn’t use it for business.”

“Mm, ‘business,’ he says,” Dick murmured, leaning his seat as far back as it would go and flipping the hood of his Bludhaven Police Academy sweatshirt over his head in preparation for his nap. “We tease you about your Earth-3 counterpart, but maybe you would make a good press secretary, if not president. You’re certainly a spin doctor.”

Without looking away from the road, Slade reached back and tugged Dick’s hood down and over his eyes. Dick smirked up at Slade.

“I have other vehicles for work,” Slade said, returning his hand to the wheel. “And there’s no honor in politics and propaganda.”

“Like you wouldn’t enjoy getting paid to be smarter than everyone else in the room,” Dick teased with a yawn. He didn’t bother straightening his shirt, choosing to muss it up further by wiggling into a more comfortable position. “You’re the right age for it too. Old as balls.”

“Go to sleep, Dick,” Slade said, eye on the road. “I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

Dick hummed. “Wake me up before you go-go,” he sung-mumbled before settling down and, before long, drifting to sleep.

It had been a week since Slade’d found Dick, dehydrated and near-unconscious in their bathroom. Dick had recovered beautifully: after a day and a half of rehydration and some food, Dick was doing backflips and threatening to go out as Nightwing again.

And so, Slade packed more thoroughly than he ever had before for this sort of vacation, threw Dick into a rented, outdoors-capable vehicle, and drove them as deeply into the Pinelands as he could.

And, by the time Dick woke up again, that was _deep_.

“Where?” Dick mumbled, rubbing the drool from his mouth with his sleeve. He sat up, his hood falling from his mussed hair. Around them, massive pine trees towered in clusters so thick, you could hardly see deeper into the foliage. And they were close to the car, so close that Dick could’ve reached out the window and lost a few fingers on the bark. Dick looked ahead and saw why: Slade was driving them on a narrow dirt path, scarcely wide enough for the car.

Slade had put on his sunglasses since Dick had first fallen asleep.

“We’re still in New Jersey, right?” Dick asked, looking around them. “Are we even _allowed_ to camp this far into the Reserve?” Dick returned his seat to the upright position so he could slump back against it comfortably.

“We are, and we’re not,” Slade replied.

Dick snorted and kicked his feet up on the dash. “You can’t even go camping legitimately. What would you do without me and our nearly moral slice of suburbia to keep you straight?”

“Camping reservations exist to protect local wildlife from idiots. We’re not idiots,” Slade said. “And you know damn well there’s nothing moral about suburbia.”

Dick laughed and rolled his window down so that he could smell the sharp, sweet air. And then, because it’d been a while since air had smelled so clean, he took a deep inhale and groaned his exhale.

There was silence for a spell, while Slade drove, and Dick basked in the forest’s scenery and Slade’s company.

After all, Slade had been gone for an awfully long time, and Dick had been too sick to appreciate Slade when he’d first come home. Dick’s cheek grew warm underneath the sunlight filtering in through the windows.

“Is anyone around, this far in?” Dick hummed, eyes heavy-lidded. He undid his seat belt.

“Shouldn’t be,” Slade mused. “Maybe the spare park ranger. I wouldn’t worry.”

“You shouldn’t under-estimate them,” Dick said, squeezing Slade’s knee and then sliding his hand up Slade’s thigh, “they’re America’s last defense against over-industrialization.”

Slade slowed the car into a gentle stop, in the middle of that dirt road lacing deep into a national reserve. He put the car in park, killed the engine, and put away his sunglasses. Dick grinned wider than a Cheshire cat.

“You stopped the car,” Dick said, reaching between Slade’s legs and below Slade’s seat to pull a lever. “Seems inefficient.” Slade’s seat slid back, and Dick climbed into Slade’s lap so that he straddled Slade’s thighs with his knees. It was a tight fit, but Slade accommodated.

Dick cupped Slade’s jaw and Slade wondered (not for the first time) how Dick managed to oscillate between “horrible imp” and “honeypot” so smoothly.

“Distracted driving’s costly. You ever hit a deer before?” Slade asked, tilting his chin up to meet Dick’s roguish gaze. “It’s gory, and most car insurance policies don’t cover it without an additional charge.”

Dick froze with a frown. “Did you not buy comprehensive coverage for our cars? Do you know where we live? I hit one of Ivy’s mutated plant-mammal-hybrids in Gotham in the BMW a couple of weeks ago, and I only took it to a mechanic because I thought we had coverage.”

Slade wrapped his hands around Dick’s raised hips and gingerly tugged down in polite suggestion. Dick did not budge, and so Slade dropped his hands.

“ _Our_ cars have comprehensive coverage,” Slade said. Dick, apparently satisfied, settled himself flush against Slade. “I didn’t buy the extra coverage for the rental.”

“Just buy the better insurance next time, we can afford it,” Dick cooed. Slade didn’t respond because Dick wanted a response, and Slade thought it responsible to occasionally say “no” to Dick’s wants.

But he was fairly fucking awful at it, and he certainly didn’t say no when Dick guided Slade’s hand beneath the waistband of Dick’s Gotham Knights sweatpants.

“We should start donating to the National Parks Service,” Dick murmured, several minutes later, as he slumped against Slade with Slade’s aching fingers still inside of him. “They don’t get enough funding.”

“We can’t supplement every congressional budget failure,” Slade said, shifting underneath Dick. “Get up. I think you dislocated one of my fingers.”

Dick lifted his hips, and Slade gingerly pulled his fingers away, brushing Dick’s oversensitive clit just to watch Dick jump with an indignant yelp. Slade’s index finger bent at an unnatural angle, so he popped the middle knuckle back into place. It bruised, yellowed, and then healed entirely in quick succession. Dick lifted Slade’s wrist and flicked his tongue over the still-sticky digit.

“I used to be able to shock you,” Slade mused, cracking his knuckles when Dick released his wrist. “There was a time when you could be chagrined.” He opened the center console and pulled out a packet of hand wipes.

“I’ve never been chagrined,” Dick retorted, climbing back into his own seat while Slade cleaned himself up. “Only vexed.” He reached for the zipper of Slade’s jeans, but Slade grabbed his wrist. Dick looked at him with the stupor of someone unused to rejection.

“We’re losing daylight,” Slade clarified, kissing the inside of Dick’s wrist. Dick had the dignity to be charmed. “We’ll want to set up camp before sunset.”

“Are you going to let me fuck you by firelight, Slade?” Dick mused. “That’s romantic.”

“It’s your vacation, kid,” Slade said, turning on the ignition and putting the car in gear.

The rest of the drive passed uneventfully, although Dick insisted on pawing at Slade until Slade offered Dick his hand so that Dick could trace the veins and wrinkles.

They made good time to the site that Slade chose for their excursion. It was a pleasant clearing, close enough to freshwater without being so close that their brief visit would disturb the locals. And although Slade hadn’t ever bothered with more luxurious accouterments of camping, having to purchase a water filter and tent was nearly worth Dick’s wide eyes at the space.

“Holy shit, Slade,” Dick said, as he helped unpack the Subaru. “This is gorgeous. Fuck, these trees are massive,” Dick nearly salivated. Slade chuffed.

“Check for dead branches and mushrooms at the base,” Slade said, even as Dick strayed from his side to go investigate one of the towering pines. Dick walked the perimeter of the tree, before running a hand over the bark.

“Why am I looking for mushrooms again?” Dick asked, hopping up and wrapping himself around the tree. Dick craned his neck to look up, and his dumbstruck smile brightened the forest.

“Mushrooms and branches indicate decay,” Slade said. Dick nodded, gave a cursory glance at the forest floor around the base of his tree, and then began climbing. Slade considered offering Dick rope, but Dick was doing fine relying on his thighs and arms as he sidled up with an elegance that belied his inexperience. Besides, if Dick was climbing, then he wasn’t getting in Slade’s way as Slade pitched their tent and built their fire. “Keep both legs and one arm anchored,” Slade warned. “Tuck in more.”

“I’ve climbed before, Slade,” Dick insisted. “Much worse things than this. Pillars, mountains, buildings, alien appendages. Ivy’s vines. I can handle a tree.”

“Just don’t fuck yourself up, kid,” Slade said. “Bark chafes.”

Dick raised his eyebrows as he continued to climb. Slade began prepping space for the tent, which he erected with an unbecoming eagerness. The tent was damn near glamorous, chosen for comfort as much as functionality. Normally, Slade preferred to build his own shelters, especially when trespassing on federal land, but he wasn’t here for his pleasure alone.

Dick paused to watch him for a moment, grinning dopily at the flex of Slade’s deltoids as Slade staked the tent into the ground.

“Didn’t really think of you as a luxury camper, Slade,” Dick said, continuing his climb. “I thought you’d packed the tent to lure me in, and I fully expected you’d still make me build a shelter out of moss and beetle wings.”

“Next time, I’ll expect you to build a shelter out of your spit and determination. But I promised you a vacation. I’m a man of my word,” Slade said. “If you’re hungry for some discipline, you can go hunt dinner. Or split wood for the fire. Filter water.”

“Dinner’s on you, babe, per usual,” Dick grunted. “I’ll get the water after this. And you’re always welcome to split me with your wood.”

Slade shot him a look and Dick scrambled to climb high enough that even Slade would have to stretch to reach Dick’s ankles. He grinned impishly at Slade.

“Dinner, then,” Slade muttered, deciding that he’d let Dick frolic while Slade prepared dinner.

Which he did, with bare hands around the neck of a particularly pretty buck whose big, black eyes reminded him of Dick’s, even as its cervical spine crunched beneath Slade’s straining fingers.

Slade returned to camp; the field-dressed buck slung across his shoulders. Dick wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but there were full jugs of water in the clearing, beside the tent. And then, moments later, there was splashing from the river. Slade tied the buck on a low hanging branch before walking to the river’s bank.

The surface of the water was undisturbed but for the slow-flowing current.

“Dick,” Slade barked. He waited, and then, in short order, a moppy head appeared atop the river’s surface.

“Slade,” Dick chirped back. Dick was at least shirtless, and his eyes were bright. Slade wasn’t sure how long he’d been in the river but judging by Dick’s wrinkled fingertips when he ran a quick hand through his soaked hair, it had been a while.

“I thought you were climbing trees,” Slade said. Dick grinned as he swam in place, making no effort to drift closer to Slade. Slade scanned the riverbank and the water for unsavory wildlife but saw nothing for the time being.

“I was. But you wanted water, and so now I’m swimming.”

Slade scowled. “You shouldn’t swim in strange rivers. There are currents. Rocks. Snakes. Weirs.”

“Oh my,” Dick grinned.

“Bacteria,” Slade added, as water sloshed dangerously close to Dick’s mouth. He’d probably already swallowed some river water as it were. Slade scowled, but Dick only laughed.

“Maybe you should stop being so boring. Maybe you should join me,” Dick cooed, allowing the current to tug him further from Slade. “’S not often we get to experiment with buoyancy.” 

“No,” Slade said, crossing his arms. “Bacteria.” Dick scowled, but then Slade jerked his head towards the deer. “I’ll teach you how to process a deer.”

Dick’s eyes lit upand he scrambled onto the riverbank, rivulets of water dripping down his bare chest, his boxer briefs plastered to his hips.

Slade waited expectantly for Dick to kiss him or grab his ass or at least smirk at him, but instead, Dick was fixated on the deer, striding right by Slade to go stroke a clean portion of its short, coarse fur. 

Slade tried not to feel ignored as he trailed behind. 

“I didn’t hear a gunshot,” Dick mused, crouching down and gingerly touching the awkward angle of its neck. “Jesus Christ, Slade.”

“How’s your stomach?” Slade asked, running his fingers through Dick’s wet, tangled hair.

“Fine,” Dick said. “I’m glad you didn’t take me up on that quickie in the water. Probably shouldn’t leave him out like this, huh?”

“That, and river water’s not good for your vaginal flora,” Slade said. Dick leaned his head all the way back to grin up at Slade.

“What a romantic,” Dick cooed, voice roughened by the angle of his throat. 

Slade _was_ a romantic, and so he showed Dick how to fillet out the backstraps, tenderloins, and neck meat. What meat Slade didn’t leave out to cook for the evening’s meal, he wrapped and stored away in the cooler he’d brought for this exact purpose.

As well prepared and well trained as Dick was for most things, he wasn’t terribly good at prepping fresh kills quite yet, and so his hands and arms were messily slick when Dick finally began to pay Slade any mind.

“Watch yourself,” Slade warned, and so Dick pulled his hands away from Slade’s clothed thighs and hips to tug down Slade’s zipper with his teeth instead.

Dick wasn’t great at skinning a deer, but he knew his way around Slade’s dick without the use of his hands well enough.

Later, after they’d washed up, Dick curled in close to Slade while Slade poked searing meat around in his specifically-for-camping-skillet over the fire Slade’d had to start because Dick didn’t.

“I’ll go with you next time,” Dick murmured. Slade raised his eyebrows.

“I didn’t think you’d want to, kid,” Slade admitted. Dick frowned.

“I can hunt, Slade,” Dick protested. “I could learn at least. It’s different if it’s for _food_.”

“You’re misunderstanding. I know you’re a quick study, and you like knowing things,” Slade said, gingerly picking a piece of cooked meat from the skillet. He let it cool between his fingertips before offering it to Dick. Dick chewed on it thoughtfully, and Slade waited until he swallowed to finish. “I just fully expected you to have dysentery by now, fucking around in river water like you were.”

Dick had already swallowed, but he still managed to choke.


End file.
